Hell Walker
by Ericka Jane
Summary: He knew the risks: pain, torture, death, insanity, addiction of sorts. He didn't really care. In some ways, he even welcomed it, as long as he got to see Sam again. Spoilers for 5.22
1. A Different Type of Hell

**A/N**: Oh. My. God. I was_ viciously_ and _violently_ attacked by plot bunnies. Seriously, I barely made it out with my life. I have like, four oneshots/mini-fics in the works, plus the final chapter(s) of 'Gaslight' and 'The Lives I Have Taken.' Please try to be patient with me, the bunnies forced me to work, and I'm picking at everything little by little.

**Warnings**: Hell (so blood, torture, mayhem), language (maybe a tad harsher that usual), angst, sappiness (yay Team BroMo!), some dark stuff, a backwards spin on drug addiction, and spoilers for 5.22.

* * *

"_If you're going through hell, keep going."  
-Winston Churchill_

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**Hell Walker**

**1.**

In hell, Dean's flesh had been ripped and peeled apart, all the way down to the muscle. He endured the agony for thirty years before it became too great to withstand, and his will power broke like his bones did under Alastair's hammer. He's known pain – emotional and physical – that no other human on earth has known, and he has suffered more than any one person can imagine.

And yet, nothing has hurt as badly as this.

Four months ago, Dean let go of the most important person in his life. Four months ago, Sam went to hell and saved the world.

Since then Dean's been doing nothing but existing. He spends his days impersonating a zombie, moving, speaking, but not feeling, not even remembering. Seriously, ask him what he did yesterday, he couldn't tell you. There's a throb in his chest, so deep and dark that it pounds against his rib cage, threatening to bust through and consume the rest of him. He feels like he's balancing on the edge, teetering over but pulling back just in time to keep from collapsing into that hole inside him. The promise he made Sam keeps yanking him back to solid ground.

He kept the promise, just not exactly the way Sam wanted him to. He didn't kill himself (though God knows he wanted to) and he didn't try to bust Sam out (which he wanted to do even more) but he didn't stay with Lisa, either. He stayed with her for a few weeks, just long enough to regain his footing but not long enough for anyone to form any real attachment. He woke up from Lisa's couch most nights shouting from nightmares. He spent most days in a liquor induced haze. He knew it wasn't fair to Lisa, and especially not to Ben, but he couldn't stop. So he kissed Lisa's cheek, promised to call, ruffled Ben's hair, and left.

After he leaves Lisa's, he takes the Impala to New York and parks her in a storage garage next to their dad's. He figures that's the best place for her, side by side with all of the things that John wanted to keep safe. He takes a few things from the trunk: his favorite gun, the demon killing knife, the angel killing sword, a few random protection charms, and some rare herbs. You never know when you might need something like that, even if you don't plan on hunting. Then he stares at Sam's stuff, which hasn't been touched since the last time his little brother pawed through it almost five months ago. He contemplates going through it, maybe taking a few things with him, but in the end he decides he can't stomach it. So he stares and then shuts the trunk lid for the last time.

* * *

He ends up in Arizona, because it's one of the only states in the country that doesn't have some sort bad memory attached to it. He also ends up with a 1997 Jeep that has a rip in the driver's side seat. Dean doesn't care. He doesn't know what he's doing, other than ignoring the voice screaming in the back of his head, telling him to end it all.

He squats in a foreclosed home for a few weeks, stocked up with nothing more than bottles of water, liquor, and some necessity food. It's not living, it's not even surviving, it's…emptiness. It's nothing but existing. Sand and pebbles from the Arizona landscape get into the house, covering the floor like dust. Dean grows a beard and drinks the days away. Most of the time he thinks about nothing, but more often than not, he thinks about everything.

Then, one days, something gets in the house.

He's not entirely sure what it was, could've been anything, really: demon, spirit, wraith, imp, boogeyman, anything. The windows and doors weren't salted, there were no protection symbols carved into the wood, no charms placed over the entrances. Dean didn't bother, didn't see any reason to care. If he was killed by something supernatural then it wasn't exactly suicide, just carelessness.

But he didn't die. Whatever it was that busted in through the door, rushed him while he was half passed out with Jack D, bloodied him up, and then left. While he was lying on the floor, bleeding out much faster than normal because of all the alcohol, he could hear Sam's voice. He could hear Sam asking him why he's doing this to himself, and what gives him the right, after what he did to save the world? Dean thinks about Cold Oak and how he's now in the position Sam was in, wanting to die or save his brother, but bound by a deal and a promise. Sam died so Dean could live, just like Dean did for him a few years ago. So what gives him the right?

He fumbled for his near dead cell phone, and called 911.

Things changed after that. Not so much that he didn't miss Sam every second of every day, or that he didn't regret ever making that promise, but enough to where he shaved and started to protect himself like the hunter that he is. After the hospital had patched him up (four friggin' claw marks, looked like he got attacked by a damn animal), Dean had to haul ass out of the state, because the cops were out to get him for breaking and entering. So he moved one state up to Nevada. Nevada has the same things that Arizona has: sand, desert, heat, and no bad shit attached to it from his past. It's good enough for Dean.

* * *

The inspiration hits a few weeks later. He's sitting in a bar with his good friend Jose, mindlessly listening to other people's conversations. Eavesdropping is something that Dean's done for as long as he can remember; it's not something that he's going to stop just because he's retired.

"I had this insane dream last night," A woman says from behind Dean.

"Yeah?" A female voice answers, "What about?"

There's a hesitant pause and then the conversation continues, "This is going to sound nuts, but, do you believe that things in dreams can be real? Like, they aren't really dreams they're more of like…moments?"

"Uhm, yeah, I guess, why?"

"It was Ashton."

A sympathetic sigh, "Oh honey, I know you're going through a rough time, he hasn't been gone that long but, Ashton's dead. It was just a dream."

"You don't get it, it was just so real. I swear, it was like he was really there. I swear I could touch him."

Dean's out the door before he can hear the response.

* * *

The idea is insane, Dean knows that. It's flat out, bat shit insane. He doesn't care. He's been riding on the coattails of crazy and reckless for as long as he can remember, so he's not about to stop now. Besides, he has nothing left to lose, so why the hell not? He makes it to New York in record time. Honestly, he even thought about getting on a plane, but even his desperation wouldn't carry him that far.

When he finally gets to New York and catches sight of his Impala for the first time in over a month, his chest does this weird constricting thing and his breathing hitches. God, he missed her. He missed her like he misses Sam. He just didn't realize it until now.

"Sorry, baby," Dean mutters as he smooths his hand over the black paint, "I know I've said it before, but I'll never leave you again. I promise this time."

Then he gets in and puts the storage garage in his rear view mirror.

He barricades himself in a motel room just outside of Albany, New York with nothing but Sam's duffle, and all the necessary things to make a dream root potion. He doesn't know if this is going to work. Actually, he'd bet years in hell and say that there's no way it's going to work. Sam's gone, in hell. But is he dead? Is there a difference between dying on earth and going to hell, and just plain walking into it? Because Sam didn't really die, he fell into hell, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Dean stares into the mug in his hand. The liquid is yellow, and the smell is putrid, just like he remembers it. He knows the risks he's taking. If this works, and he ends up in Sam's head, then who knows what he's going to find in there. He and Lucifer still might be sharing the same brain, Dean has no idea. He doesn't know if he's going to go crashing in there and be killed by Satan, or if he's going to be caught in Sam's hell dreams, of if he's going to die. Honestly, all of the above might happen. On the other hand, if Sam's really in there, then Dean can control what he's dreaming. He can help ease Sam's suffering.

Resolute, Dean drops one of Sam's hairs from his brush into the mug and swishes it around. Then he tosses it back in one gulp.

* * *

He's expecting hell. He's expecting the screaming and the agony and the blood. But there isn't any. It's puzzling because Dean knows that you can't escape hell; that's part of what makes it so terrible, hell is eternal. When he was in the pit, he fell into fitful spells of sleep – twenty minutes at the most – and he was still plagued with the sounds, smells,_ feelings_ of hell. It's a never ending loop of pain, even in dreams. So when he crashes into what he hopes is Sam's headspace, he braces himself, anticipating the inevitable anguish that is going to assault all of his senses.

But it doesn't happen. It's just empty – peaceful, even. His footsteps echo in what appears to be a huge, marble room. It reminds him painfully of the angels' green room, only not nearly as bright and without all the furnishings. It's just empty. Dean frowns as he takes in the space, looking for something, anything that will take him to Sam. He doesn't know if he should be relieved because Sam doesn't seem to be suffering or panicked because his little brother doesn't appear to be home. He's about to give up. He's about to accept that Sam's gone and there's nothing that Dean can do about it. Then the heavy weight of a hand falls onto his shoulder.

He spins, breathing heavy from adrenaline, with his good punching hand up and ready.

It's Sam, who looks just as freaked as Dean is.

"Dean?" Sam breathes with his eyes wide and glossy, "Are you real?"

Dean's still trying to process because holy shit, Sam's in front of him – he's really _there_, not a figment of his imagination or a hallucination from too much grief and alcohol. It worked. He's really there.

He doesn't answer verbally; instead he yanks his brother forward by his shirt and crushes him into a desperate embrace. Sam clings back just as hard, fingers digging in past clothes to grip at flesh. Dean hopes it bruises, so that when he wakes up, he'll know that he really saw Sam.

He's not ready to let go, he doesn't think Sam is either, but he has questions he needs to ask: Are you ok? Where's Adam? What happened to Lucifer? How are you blocking out hell? He doesn't want to, but he needs to, so he slowly peels himself away from Sam but keeps a firm grip on his arms.

"Sammy?"

Then suddenly the scene changes. The marble room falls away to replace an empty highway, complete with the Impala. It's sort of like a terrible heaven flashback, but it's not hell, so Dean will take it. Sam stares at the Impala like it's a long lost treasure, and then he cracks a half of smile, "let's go, we don't have a lot of time." The comment confuses Dean but he follows.

Sam tugs him to the car, hesitantly letting go when they need to separate to open the doors. They do so quickly and slam the creaky doors shut simultaneously, like they've done so many other times before. Silence fills the vehicle and Dean stares. It's been five months, five months of alcohol and pain and emptiness, and now it's all crashing to a halt because Sam's right in front of him. It's hard to wrap his mind around it.

"How are you here?" Sam asks as he stares right back at Dean.

"Dream root."

Surprise flashes across Sam's face, which is then chased away by something that Dean can only describe as fury.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean half pleads, "You would've done it too. You would've done _something_."

"You promised me," Sam replies shortly, jaw working in anger.

"I kept it."

Sam sends him a short death glare.

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes, "Sorta. Listen, you can tear into me later, ok? You can even take a swing at me if it'll make you feel better, but…not now. Let's just…"

Sam's look softens and the anger drains out of him, "Yeah. Ok." Then Sam's hand finds the sleeve to Dean's leather jacket, and he holds onto it, like a toddler might hold onto a blanket. Dean feels his throat clog up. If Sam is willing to drop all walls like this, then things must be bad.

"How about you? How are you here?" Dean questions after he feels like he can speak again.

Sam shrugs and when he speaks, he does it slowly, like he's on the verge of falling asleep, "Sometimes, when I feel strong enough, I can block it all out. Doesn't happen very often. Most of the time it's just…"

Hell. Dean fills in mentally, it's hell. He swallows and moves his arm closer to Sam, who grips tighter.

"Lucifer?"

Sam snorts with dry humor, "Ditched me the second we hit the pit. Spends half of his time fighting with Michael and the other half ripping me to bits."

Dean winces because he imagines that Sam means that literally, "And Adam?"

"Haven't seen him," Sam replies tightly, "Michael probably got rid of him. Don't know what happened after that."

"S'ok, we'll find him." The reassurance is immediate.

Sam smiles, slow and sad, "Dean, we're not even in the same dimension. I'm in hell, remember?"

Christ, don't remind him. It's way too easy to forget that they were ever separated when they're just sitting in the Impala, talking like no time had ever passed. It's too easy to forget that Sam's gone.

"You know you can't come back, right?"

Dean whips his head back around to look at Sam, "What?"

"It's too risky, Dean," Sam says as he shakes his head, "You got lucky this time, falling into my head when I had enough energy to escape. There probably won't be a next time."

"Don't care."

"You could be tortured too, or killed," Sam continues.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean replies with a sardonic smirk.

"That's not funny."

"Just the facts, Sammy."

"Dean…"

"Sam, don't," Dean pleads and then breathes when he feels his throat tightening, "I can't, man. I tried, and I just can't. M'sorry. And now that I know it's possible…Sam I can control your dreams, shit, I could even keep you here…" Keep you safe, Dean adds silently.

"Not forever, you can't. Sooner or later one of us is going to wake up, and if Lucifer catches on to what you're doing…it'll be bad. For both of us. I won't take that chance," Sam replies resolutely, jaw clenching as he stares out the windshield, eyes squinting.

Dean stares for a second and then chuckles humorlessly, even though there's an obvious affection in the sound as well.

"What?"

"We've seen each other for a total for four minutes and we're already doing the same ole' shit," Dean says with a smile, "It's kinda nice. Annoying, but nice."

"Yeah," Sam replies, his eyes wet, "I miss you too."

The lump returns to Dean's throat and he has to work not to break down right fucking there, because no matter what, Sam's still in hell, still dead.

"I'm coming back."

"Damnit, Dean…"

"I backed your play," Dean interrupts fiercely, "God help me, it hurt like a sonuvabitch and I didn't want to, but I backed your decision to let Lucifer in. Do the same for me, c'mon man."

Sam huffs and shakes his head, "You promised to leave me here."

"I am leaving you here," And Jesus if that didn't hurt like a bitch to say. Dean actually flinches when the words finish leaving his mouth, "Technically."

"Don't you get it, Dean? I let him out, I had to put him back in, and after everything…"

Dean doesn't like where this is going. Not at all. "Everything, what?"

"I deserve to be down here for everything I did. I deserve to be in hell and I deserve to be here without you protecting me from it," Sam finishes.

Dean doesn't get the chance to do anything except stare in shock before one of them wakes up, and plunges Dean back into reality.


	2. Brimstone

**Warnings**: Language, gory imagery, shortness, hugging. Just the usual, really.

P.S. Did you all know that Africa Dream Root is real? No joke, you can buy it on the internet lol. Be honest, you can't say you're not tempted to try it.

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**2.**

_Sometimes solutions aren't so simple.  
Sometimes, goodbye's the only way. _

_-Linkin Park, 'Shadow of the Day'_

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Dean snaps awake, twitching hard enough to move him to the other side of the bed. He has no idea what time it is, what day it is, or even where he is. Between the disjointed time and the tilt of the room, Dean feels like he's coming down from a bad acid trip from the seventies. But to be honest he doesn't really care because his head, his entire being, is still trying to bounce back from _hell_ and _Sam_.

Without waiting for his senses to clear, Dean bolts for the bathroom, almost falling on his face more than once. He stumbles into the cramped room, fumbling for the light switch in the dark. Once the light's on, he yanks his shirt up and twists around, trying to get a good look at his back in the mirror. Dean can feel his pulse thump in his wrist from his racing heart, and his hands are shaking anxiously. But there it is, evidence as clear as day: small, yellow/green bruises where Sam's fingers would've been when he hugged Dean. He cranes his arm so he can push on the discolored skin, feeling a twisted sense of relief when the touch responds with a dull pain.

It had been real. _Sam_ had been real.

Dean drops his shirt, feeling his body shudder as he lets go of the breath he was holding. Then he sits on the closed toilet seat, puts his head between his knees, and just breathes.

-0-

He wants to swallow some dream root and go back right the fuck _now_, but the cramping in his gut throws a wrench in that plan. Dean can't remember the last time he ate. He can't even remember the last time he showered, and that's a problem. So even though every single neuron in his body is screaming at him to get back to Sam, he begrudgingly orders pizza, and jumps in the shower.

He wolfs down the meat lover's so fast that he doesn't even taste it, and he's left feeling nauseous. Of course, the nausea could also be from the dream root or the anxiousness of wanting to get back to Sam's head. Dean can't really tell, doesn't really even give a shit. The world could be ending (again) and he still wouldn't care about anything except seeing Sam again, and trying to find a way to bust him out.

-0-

Darkness is starting to fall. The sunset streams into the motel room, setting the room ablaze with orange and purple. Dean stares out the window, watching as it gets darker and darker. He doesn't know what happens if you take dream root repeatedly, or if you take it more than once in the same ten hours, or there's any kind of consequences. Sam would probably know. The thought makes his heart clench and shutter with pain, which only adds to the urgency, the _need_ to see his brother again.

Dean mixes up another batch of dream-walking potion, and stares into it. He wonders what he's going to do if Sam's being tortured in his dreams, or if he runs into Lucifer. Then he realizes it doesn't matter because in dreams, he's in control, not them. So he doesn't give it another thought and tosses the mixture back.

-0-

The difference between this time and the last time he took a trip into Sam's head is immediate and palpable. There's no sense of peace or solitude in the darkness, there's only the feeling of heaviness, like he's caught right in the middle of the eye of the storm.

"Sammy?" Dean dares to whisper in the blackness, feeling uneasy when it echoes back to him.

Sudden pain ripples through him like lightning, sending him to one of his knees with a cut off yell and a grunt. His teeth clamp together as he tries to prevent sound from escaping his throat, and his hands clench hard. He pants as a small sliver of fear drives down deep into his stomach, and for a second, he forgets why he's even there.

"Sam!"

Yelling is probably not the best idea, but he kinda left tact and logic behind in the motel room twelve hours ago. He's working off of desperation and determination. Winchester history says that doing so will only end with him, or Sam, in pain but that's never really stopped them before.

More pain rips through him; the throbbing agony is familiar and terrifying. He's felt it before; the sensation of slowly ripping skin and nerves being split right open. Vivisection.

Nonononono_no_

It hits again, right down his spine, and he swears he can feel the blade scrape against his vertebrates. The scream that he hears comes from him. It's a sound he didn't think he'd hear again, a sound that was never supposed to come out of his chest again. It's a scream reserved only for the horrors and torment of hell.

He wants out but he doesn't make the move to focus his energy to wake himself up. He's in Sam's head, but he doesn't think Sam's asleep or unconscious. He thinks Sam's awake, living through the torture, and Dean's feeling every second of it. He doubts that Sam realizes he's there but he doesn't want to miss the chance that his brother could fade out, and seek the refuge of dreams and minuscule sleep. He just doesn't want to leave him.

He can feel layers of skin being pulled back, revealing rib bones and pulsating organs. He can feel it like he's under Alistair's razor, trying to squirm away as splinters of wood shove themselves into the top layer of his flesh. But no one's there, and he's twitching on the floor in a tight ball, attempting to escape the pain. He's not on the rack. He's not even bleeding, there isn't a scratch on him, but the pain is so tangible that he might as well be. He hears more screams echo around in the darkness but at this point he can't tell if they're his or if he's hearing Sam. He guesses it doesn't matter.

It goes on like that and Dean loses a sense of time, caught in the haze of agony.

Until it stops.

The room's not as dark now, cast in a soft glow that looks like the indigo color of a 5 am sunrise. But Dean barely takes notice. He's still curled in a ball on the floor, trembling from the memory of the phantom razor cuts in his muscles and skin. He hears footsteps and he wants to move, wants to _run_, really, but he can't force his body to get with the program.

Something drops next to him. He flinches and makes a last ditch attempt to move himself away from whoever – whatever- is in his breathing space. It doesn't work.

"Dean?"

The voice is soft and shaky, unsure and vulnerable. It's Sam.

Dean's eyes open, he didn't even realize they were closed, only to come face to face with Sam. Sam, who's eyes are red rimmed and blurry with tears that are ready to fall, and covered in sweat, just like Dean.

"Sammy," Dean rasps before crawling to his knees and tugging Sam into him, crushing his brother's chest to his own as he hangs on tight.

Sam's shaking, and his sweaty forehead is pressed into the crook of Dean's neck. He tries not to listen as Sam whispers, "Don't come back, don't come back, don't come back," over and over again into his shoulder. Instead he focuses on calming his own heartbeat, ignoring how his eyes burn, and holding onto his brother.

"It's going to be ok, Sam."

Sam grips tighter, and Dean knows that he hasn't been able to fool either of them.

-0-

They end up in the Impala again. Dean finds it comforting to know that no matter where he is, the car can still act as a safe haven.

"Why'd you come back?" Sam asks, his voice small yet seeming loud in the quiet of the car.

Dean sighs, "C'mon, Sam. You know why."

"No, Dean, I don't. You have to know the risks involved in this, look what happened earlier..."

"Are we really going to have this conversation again?" Dean interrupts as he rubs his forehead in exhaustion.

"Yeah, we are, because obviously your thick skull didn't get the message the first time. This is dangerous, Dean. You aren't supposed to be here, you're not dead."

"So?"

"So?" Sam repeats, "Are you serious? What, you're just going to dream root your way through life until you die? Dean, go back to Lisa, burn all the fricken dream root, and move on."

Dean shakes his head, "No way, Sam."

"Damnit," Sam hisses, "How long do you think you're going to be able to do this? What happens when you run out of dream root? Bela's not around to score some for you and we have no idea where or how she got it."

"It's not like she was freakin' Yoda, Sam, I'll figure it out."

Sam breathes hard through his nose, sounding a lot like a pissed off bull, "And when you can't withstand hell anymore? What then?"

Dean glares, "it's going to take at least 30 years before that day comes."

"Maybe not this time."

"Are you saying I'm not strong enough?" The accusation is plainly there, and it hangs between them like a hovering guillotine blade.

"I'm saying that one day, hell is going to be too much and you're not going to be strong enough to come back. So just, take the easy way out, just this once. Please."

They stare at each other for a moment before Dean shakes his head, "Not this time, Sammy. Sorry."

He says the words but in the back of his mind, he wonders if Sam's right. How long can he do this? How long until the torments of hell outweigh the need to keep Sam in his life?

How many years will it take for him to break this time? And a better question, will Sam break before that?

There's only one answer, he decides, and that's to get Sam out of hell. He just needs to figure out how.


	3. Smoke

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, everyone. I think season 6 threw me off a bit creatively but the muse is back (and hopefully she'll stick around for a while, the traitor.) This is a really short chapter but I'm already working on the next one, so hopefully the down time will be minimal.

**Warnings:** This chapter's really tame. Nothing here but some angst and language.

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**3.**

_I'm about to lose my mind_  
_You've been gone for so long_  
_I'm running out of time._

- Dr. Dre ft. Eminem and Skylar Gray, _I need a Doctor_

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Dean wakes up with his gut churning, the briefest warning before his stomach rebels. He has just enough time to roll over so that the bile ends up on the floor instead of his lap. When it's over and he's gasping for breath, his stomach still cramps and his head pounds like a base drum at a Stone's concert. Dean lies there for a second, forehead resting on his arm, curled on the edge of the bed, before he gets the nerve to attempt moving.

Dean ends up sitting in the shower because standing just makes the room spin and sway. When he crawls out of the bathroom, he searches out his cell phone, which he hasn't used since he called 911 while in Arizona. It's buried at the bottom of his duffle. He shuts his eyes and sits on the floor, back against the bed. His fingers search out the buttons and hit the correct ones by sheer muscle memory. The ringing is cut off quickly by a surprised and concerned, "Dean?"

"Bobby."

If possible, Dean sounds worse than he feels and if he can recognize that, then there's no way that Bobby won't too.

"Dean?" as predicted, the man's tone has changed accordingly, now more panic than anything, "You ok? You sound like death warmed over."

Dean cracks a small smile, "Feel like worse."

"What happened?"

Sam died, that's what happened. That's not the answer Bobby's looking for but it's the answer Dean feels like giving.

"What happens if you take a whole buncha dream root?"

There's silence on the other end and Dean can picture Bobby's expression, the perfect combination of suspicion and 'please tell me you didn't.'

"Dean. What did you do?"

"Just been doin' some dream walking, Bobby. Nothing to get excited over."

"Dream walking with _who_?"

They both know that Bobby knows the answer but Dean indulges any ways, "Sam."

"Are you stupid, boy?"

Dean winces as Bobby's enraged voice echoes through the phone, "Bobby…"

"Don't you 'Bobby,' me. You have any idea what kind of shit you coulda stepped in doing this?"

"I had to do something." Is Dean's response, desperate and not at all sorry, "I had to."

"Damnit" Bobby mutters into the phone and Dean can picture him taking his trucker hat off, trying to regain composure, "Ok. What went wrong?"

Dean snorts, "What didn't? Woke up, puked my guts out, head's screamin,' can't look at anything without feeling like I got a hold of some bad shrooms. Feels worse than the hangover from hell."

"What happened when you were in Sam's head?"

Dean tenses up, immediately feeling the phantom pain of razors, and the slide of warm blood mixing with his sweat. He swallows and forces himself to tell Bobby, "They were torturing Sam. Vivisection."

Bobby doesn't say anything and Dean's kind of grateful. There's not much to say to that anyways.

"I'll do some research," Bobby finally says, "And Dean? Don't take it again. Not until we know what you're really doing to yourself."

"But…"

"Do you wanna end up as messed up as the last kid we came across who got hooked on dream root?"

Dean doesn't, but he knew the risks he was taking when he took that first dose. He doesn't say that, though. Instead he says, "No," because that's what Bobby wants to hear.

"In the mean time start making your way over here. Haven't heard from ya in months and the least you can do after giving me this heart attack is stop by so I can make sure you're ok, ya idjit."

Dean grunts in acknowledgment and then opens his eyes, watching the way the ceiling spins, "Might be a few days. Don't know how long this freaky hang over is gonna last."

"Just make sure you get here."

"Bobby? I needta get 'em out. I can't leave Sammy there."

There's silence on the other end but Dean can tell it's an understanding silence, one from someone who wants Sam back too, "We'll try, Dean. We'll try."

Dean passes out before he can flip his phone shut.

He dreams but it's one of his own, fluid and unaided by anything but his subconscious. Sam's there, that seems to be the only constant. His brother's younger though, 22 or 23, right around the age when he was torn from Stanford and his dream life. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder on a picnic table, on a beach that looks vaguely familiar. The sand is near white and the water's huge and dark, a never ending black-blue mass stretching towards the sinking sun.

"Remember this?" Sam suddenly asks. His voice is low and easy. "You brought me here after Jessica died. Said I should try and remember something good about California."

Dean does remember, now that Sam's said something. He probably should've remembered anyways. They don't see many beaches.

"I remember."

Sam smiles and Dean's chest constricts. It's been so long since he's seen Sam this relaxed, this happy. He almost forgot what it looked like.

"I remember thinking how grateful I was that you made me come here. It was nice to just have some peace, you know? Even if it was only for a few hours. No one else ever would've thought to try."

Dean doesn't answer, uncomfortable with the praise but happy that he was able to help. When Sam was going through the grief of losing Jessica, Dean always felt helpless. After a lifetime of taking care of Sam he had finally found the one thing that he didn't know how to fix or to make better. Most of the time he was just flying by the seat of his pants, hoping that he was doing something right.

The waves crash and the sun is just a sliver in the horizon, but there's still just enough pink light to see the details in Sam's face.

"I'm going to fix it, Sam." Dean's not talking about Jessica anymore, but he might as well be. He's still flying by the seat of his pants with no way of knowing if he even can make it better, but damned if he's not going to try until it kills him.

Sam smiles again, soft and trusting, "I know."

Dean wakes up on the floor with a perfect view of the dust bunnies under the bed. He breathes, not even caring about what he may be sucking into his lungs, turns his face into the carpet, and cries.


	4. Fire

**Warnings: Hell violence/torture, general disturbing stuff, language, angst. Good times. **

* * *

_"I hope you're ready,_  
_I hope you're ready for the fall."_

_- A Skylit Drive, "The Cali Buds" _

* * *

Dean remembers this kind of pain from when he was in hell. The quick, white hot stings, each deeper and hotter than the previous, accompanied by the loud snap of the whip and the drip, drip, drip of blood; it's something that's near impossible to forget. Lashings are just as painful as vivisection but so much worse, because you get lashed to be sent a message. Vivisection is mostly there for the demon's sport (and your pain), but lashings are meant to tear you down, to remind you that you're in hell and while you're there, you're no more important than an insect. And the thought of his strong, resilient brother being subjected to a lashing makes Dean's stomach twist up.

Dean's cheek is pressed to the marble floor in the massive, hollow room that resides in Sam's head. Every snap and hit of the cat makes Dean jerk and grit his teeth, and all the while he tries not to think of how Sam's going through the exact same thing. Some hits are too much to take and he can't stop the grunt or cry that forces itself out of his throat, making it ache. The sound echoes around the room and the loneliness of it hits him, almost as if he _is_ back in hell with nothing to take him away from the pain or feeling. Lost in the haze of the whip cracking and his back shredding, Dean can hear Alastair's slimy voice curling around him like a snake. _How many times do we have to do this, Dean? You have the power to stop it; all you have to do is say yes._ Alastair always sing-songed "yes," taunting the word knowing Dean would just grind his teeth and spit out, "No." And Dean did, followed with a rough, but not always strong, "Go screw yourself." Dean lost count of how many lashings he went through in his thirty years.

For a moment, the whistle and crack of the whip silences. Dean doesn't dare move or breathe, knowing that the stillness doesn't mean that it's over, just that something else is coming. His back is screaming. In his mind he can picture the bloody mess; slashes down to the bone, visible layers of muscle and skin, even though he knows that his own back is perfectly smooth and unblemished. It's just the pain that's real, not the end result.

That's why he feels every inch of the scalding oil that gets poured over his supposed mangled flesh. The scream that he lets out doesn't even sound human as the thick liquid slowly fills up every deep gash in his back. He screams until his voice gives and he can't pull in any more air.

As he slowly starts to pull out of Sam's head and the pain starts to fade and dull, he swears he can hear Sam scream too.

* * *

Dean wakes the same way he did last time, with a sharp pain in his stomach and the undeniable need to puke. This time he stumbles his way out of bed to make it to the trash can, a decision that he immediately regrets as the whole room tilts to a dangerous angle. When he crashes to his knees in front of the trash can, he nearly misses and tips the trash over when the vertigo takes over. This time he's barely able to expel his stomach contents into the wastebasket before he passes out, flopping over and almost dumping the trash for the second time.

* * *

The road's lined with thick forest, twisted and mangled like it's been growing for hundreds of years and ran out of room long ago. It's dark save the light glaring down from the oversized moon, but it's not scenery that has Dean's attention; it's the Impala a few yards away. The car is parked off the side of the road. The dark paint blends seamlessly into the woods threatening to engulf the car, but Dean would know the gleaming outline of his baby anywhere. As he gets closer though, he can tell something's off. He can tell from the way that the back of his neck prickles and the muscles of his shoulders tense. It's the same feeling he gets while on a hunt, just before something goes wrong. Now that he's closer, he can see that there's someone or something huddled in the backseat, something that's curled up tight but twitching like it's flinching away from something repeatedly. Frowning and wishing he had a weapon, Dean creeps towards the back door of the car. Now, with his hand on the door handle, the uneasy feeling that had taken over him minutes ago morphs into dread because the thing inside is wearing Sam's clothes.

"Sammy?" Dean pulls the door open and is unprepared for what's inside.

It's Sam but it's not _Sam_. This person, Dean doesn't recognize. He's skeletal, skin pulled thin over gaunt features and bones. His wide, blue hazel eyes are too big for his face and full of terror. They don't even seem to see Dean as they dart around, looking for something that Dean doesn't want to imagine.

"Sammy? Sam, can you hear me?" Dean's scared to touch, scared to break Sam because he looks so fragile, or scare him even further.

Sam pushes himself further against the opposite door and pulls his painfully legs up with his painfully thin arms, making himself as small as possible. Dean swallows, unsure of what to do.

Dean slowly lowers himself so he's crouching in between the open door and the back seat, trying to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible while staying close to Sam.

"It's me, Sammy, just me. There's no one out here but us, man. S'just us."

Sam's eyes rest on Dean but the fear there isn't erased, and he hasn't calmed. His boney hands clench and unclench in the fabric of his jeans as he stares at Dean.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly as he locks his gaze with Sam's, trying to put as much reassurance into his gaze as he can, despite feeling like he's crawling outta his skin with worry and panic. Sam looks like a traumatized refugee and he doesn't know why or what to think.

"Real?"

At first, Dean doesn't think it's Sam who spoke because the word is so rough and unrecognizable that it sounds more like it came from a dying man who smoked three packs a day. But Dean saw Sam's lips move and the glimmer of hope that flashed through Sam's eyes when he forced the question out. And when Dean realizes what Sam's asking, his heart clenches painfully in his chest.

"Yeah, Sam. I'm real."

It's like a switch. Sam launches himself off the door and scrambles out of the car, latching onto Dean as soon as he's able. Sam's boney joints bump and jab into Dean, but he doesn't care much as he gently hangs onto Sam. He's still scared of squeezing too tightly and snapping Sam like a twig. Sam seems to be hanging on hard enough for the both of them though, fisting Dean's jacket in his hands as he presses his face into Dean's shoulder.

"Can't go back, can't go back, can't go back, can't go back. _Please_ don't make me. Please?"

Over and over again, Sam's unrecognizable voice – which Dean figures is just shredded from screaming- sobs pleas into the junction of his shoulder. It's so childlike, so far from any display of vulnerability that Sam would ever show, that Dean can't help but tighten his hold. But he doesn't say anything because if he promises _this_ Sam that he'll save him and then fails…

Dean can't handle the thought of lying to him right now.

Sam gasps and it's full of fear, and Dean pulls back to see what has his brother spooked. Sam pulls away too but keeps his hands twisted up in the front of Dean's jacket, hanging on as if his life depends on it.

"Sam?"

"No, no, _no_. Dean, I can't go back, I_ can't_," Sam's rocking back and forth, tears flowing freely down the sharp angles of his face.

Dean keeps one hand on Sam's arm and then runs another down his face, not knowing what to do or how to calm Sam down again.

"Go where, Sammy? C'mon, talk to me. Help me out, here."

But Sam just gets more agitated. Letting go of Dean, he grabs his head instead, buries his hands in his hair tightly and continues to rock.

"Not going back, I'm not going back, I'm not going back."

"Ok, Sam, just – just calm down," Dean says as he starts to reach for Sam again, but retreats as Sam starts to flicker in and out like a spirit.

Sam's hyperventilating and just before he flickers for the final time, he lets out a gut wrenching, chilling shout of, "No!" and then disappears.

* * *

Dean wakes up mid yell, screaming his brother's name. The sound of his own voice drills a spike of pain through his brain, which then explodes and consumes his whole skull. With a groan, Dean rolls over and grabs his head, tucking himself up into a ball as he attempts to get a hold of his breathing.

Once the ache dulls from pure agony to just plain ole pain, Dean forces himself to crawl to the bathroom. Unwilling to attempt standing just yet, Dean turns on the faucet to the bathtub and sticks his head under the lukewarm water. He shuts his eyes as the water streams over his head and runs onto his face. He breathes through his mouth to avoid inhaling the water running by his nose, and tries to imply the breathing technique his dad taught him years ago to help control pain. In and out, slow, controlled; if you stop focusing on how much it hurts it'll be easier to handle.

It's not really working. In fact, Dean swears the pain is intensifying.

Blindly, Dean reaches up and turns off the faucet. He takes another deep breath before leaning back from his kneeling position, not bothering to interfere with gravity as he keeps falling backwards and ends up on the floor, looking at the ceiling. Staring at the water stained, yellowish paint is making his stomach lurch, so he shuts his eyes and tries not to think about the energy that's going to be required to peel himself off the floor again.

* * *

Sam's his normal, healthy, 26 year old self with eyes that have seen way too much. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hood of the Impala with nothing but black pavement in front of them, and stars above them.

"This is nice," Sam says. The words sound extra loud in the silence of the night. "Just…not being. You know?"

Actually, Dean doesn't really have a clue what Sam's talking about, but he nods anyways. He's pretty sure the question was rhetorical anyways. He doesn't know why but he presses his shoulder closer to Sam's, taking comfort from the solid feel of his brother right next to him. Sam presses back.

"You're not going to forget about this, right?" Sam asks, suddenly sounding worried and choked.

Dean frowns, "No. Why would I?"

Sam shrugs but doesn't answer.

* * *

There's a hand in his hair, fingernails scratch their way through his scalp, down his neck. Dean hasn't opened his eyes yet but he can tell from the smell –blood, sulfur, and heat- that he's back in the pit. He knows the hand belongs to Alastair, no one else could make him feel like a dog being appreciated by its master. He tries to jerk away but finds himself immobile, which earns an amused chuckle from somewhere to his right. Dean finally gets the courage to open his eyes and he's greeted with the disturbingly familiar sight of chains securing him to the wooden rack. His breath quickens without his permission. When he was in hell, he worked hard to hide his fear from all the demonic bastards and he feels ashamed that he can't seem to get a hold of himself right now.

"Shhh," Alastair coos, and the hand is back in Dean's hair, "We're just here to watch."

Dean flinches away as much as he can, but then pauses when Alastair's words sink in. _Watch_.

That's when he notices the rack directly in front of him and on it is Sam. And it's his Sam, the one who just sacrificed himself for the world.

Watch.

"No."

Dean doesn't even realize he says anything until Alastair clucks, "Always with that word, Dean. You know how much that word gets you in trouble."

Dean knows right then and there to keep his mouth shut unless he wants Sam to get hurt worse.

Sam doesn't seem to notice him; he doesn't seem to notice much of anything as he pulls fruitlessly on his metal bindings. Dean wants to call out, to try and calm Sam, or at least give his brother something else to focus on other than what's coming. But he won't dare open his mouth, wouldn't dare make anything worse for Sam.

"What's it going to be today, Sam?"

Sam immediately tenses as the fluid voice fills the room. Suddenly he's there, Lucifer. Dean knows from the way the room cools from blistering hot to Antarctic cold. Lucifer burns cold. In his true form, he's huge, taller than any being Dean's ever seen with big, black wings folded behind him. His face is hidden and for that, Dean's selfishly grateful.

"No suggestions?" Lucifer asks, "Skinning, disemboweling, burning, breaking? Slow? Fast? How would you prefer it, Sam?"

It's sickening because Lucifer actually sounds like he wants Sam's opinion, like this is truly important to the fallen angel.

"Go screw yourself, you bastard."

Dean's heart clenches, recognizing the tone and words from his own vocabulary. Sam always did try to channel his big brother when he was truly terrified.

Lucifer ignores the jibe, "I think skinning. It's been awhile, hasn't it, Sam? And you do have so much skin."

Sam's terror visibly skyrockets even though Dean can tell he's trying to control it, just like he was taught, just like Dean would. Dean's heart cracks just a little bit more.

"Do you remember this, Dean-o?" Alastair asks. His voice is right by Dean's ear as they both watch Lucifer pick up the preferred blade for skinning.

Dean does. He could never forget. Of all the torture forms in hell, skinning was possibly his least favorite because of how slow it is and how agonizing it makes it. Slow, shallow cuts and then peel. Even deeper cuts, peel. Over and over again until there's nothing left but glistening muscle and too much blood. Dean's eyes tear up just thinking about it. There's a plea in his throat that's begging to come out, a plea for someone to stop this from happening because he doesn't want to watch, and he doesn't want Sam to have to go through it. He forces it back down because if he makes a sound, he knows Sam will pay for it.

But for once in his miserable life, someone answers his prayers just as Lucifer makes the first cut in Sam's arm.

* * *

"Dean? Dean! Wake up, damnit!"

Someone slaps his face, which only makes his throbbing head ring even harder. He wakes up to Bobby's bearded face hanging over his. The older man looks panicked and downright _pissed_.

"Bobby…" Dean warns before he lurches up, narrowly avoiding braining himself on Bobby's skull. He nearly slumps right back over but Bobby steadies him, and Dean leans forward to vomit in the bathtub. Only there isn't much left to vomit, and so he spends a few painful minutes dry heaving into the pale yellow tub.

"Easy, kid," Bobby soothes, keeping a firm grip on Dean so he doesn't face plant.

Dean coughs a few times and then slumps forward, "M'ok."

Bobby snorts, "Yeah, you sound it. You ready to move?"

Dean wants to say "no" but he gets the feeling that he's been in the bathroom for too long already. Together, with Bobby supporting most of Dean's weight, they make the short trek from the bathroom to the beds. Once Dean is situated, meaning face down in bed with the covers cocooned around him, he asks, "What's wrong with me?"

Bobby huffs as if he's trying not to sound too pissed off, "Besides the brain cells you're obviously missing? You poisoned yourself, dumbass. Took too much damned dream root. Three days ago you called me from New York sayin' that you'd be on your merry way soon…"

Dean's eyes open. Three days ago?

"Then yesterday I decided I was sick of hearing your voicemail and tracked your cell signal down, only to find that you only made it to Ohio before you decided to do some more dream walkin'. And now here I am, debating on how hard I should beat your ass for being so damn stupid."

"Bobby…"

"Lemme guess: head hurts like a railroad spike's in it? Nauseous? Can't tell what's an actual dream and what's in Sam's head? Feels like you're in a bad trip that had it's own bad trip?"

"Never would've pegged you for a hippie," Dean mumbles in reply.

"Don't' smart ass me, boy. Do you know what kind of heart attack you gave me? Never mind that the last time I talked to you you were barely lucid, and then you don't show up or answer your phone and I have no idea if you wrapped the car around a tree, or if you were dead in a motel room! Turns out, it was almost the later!"

Dean wants to say something like, "Nagging girlfriend, much?" or "Bobby, I didn't know you cared," but he doesn't think that'd be appropriate, especially since Bobby's right. He doesn't remember leaving New York, he doesn't remember taking the dream root again, and right now he can barely tell the difference between the ceiling and the floor. He deserves Bobby's yelling and then some.

"Sorry, Bobby," is what he says instead, and he says it in earnest.

Bobby sighs and adjusts the trucker cap on his head, "Just don't do it again and we'll call it even."

"Deal."

Dean doesn't ever want to feel this shitty again. That, and he still isn't sure if his dreams were "dreams" or if he was experiencing things from Sam's head, or what. All of the above? He knows that he can't just leave Sam there which means taking more dream root until they figure something else out, but he's not exactly ready to poison himself again, either. Then again, he doesn't even remember doing it the first time, so can he even trust himself to not end up here again? Does he really even care if it means getting Sam back in the end?

"Go to sleep, Dean," Bobby says as if he can hear Dean's inner monologue, "We'll head out tomorrow if you're feeling half way human. Then we'll figure this mess out. If there's a way to get Sam out, we'll find it."

Dean falls asleep and this time, it's dreamless.


	5. Interlude

A/N: I thought now would be a good place for a Sammy interlude; it's been a while since we've heard from him. Inspiration curtsey of CeCe Away :D Thanks everyone!

**Interlude**

We all need someone to cling to, even the people who pretend that they don't; it's a fact of life. Some people spend their whole lives searching for that one person that they're able to share everything with, that person who they know will be with them through everything, no matter the circumstances. Sometimes it's a partner, sometimes it's a friend, sometimes it's family. Sam Winchester is lucky enough to have had that person from birth.

But right now, he wishes he didn't.

Cause see, while there are a lot of good things that come from having that person in your life, there is also a lot of bad. One thing being when they hurt, so do you, and Sam really doesn't need any more hurt right now. Which is why he wishes his big brother would just cut his ties, and leave Sam to spend the rest of eternity in the cage. But as long as Dean's still breathing, he'll never do that.

Stupid, stubborn bastard.

Dean's gate crashed maybe six or seven of Sam's dreams, and each time Dean has looked worse than the time before. Forget the pale skin, the thin sheen of sweat, and the under eye circles that are so dark they look painted on, Dean looked plain _haunted_ the last time he showed up. Sam's never seen that look in on his brother's face before and he never wants to again. The stark helplessness and pain shining in Dean's eyes made Sam think that his brother was living in his own hell, a self created one that no angel will be able to pull him out of. The thought scares him almost as much as Lucifer's voice does.

* * *

The cage and hell are different, yet the same. The cage burns cold while hell is an inferno. Hell has demons, souls, bone, flesh, and blood; the cage is a nitch housing angels and two unfortunate vessels. Hell is endless torment and suffering; trapped souls stuck on an endless loop of misery and agony. The cage has all of that too, except it has the advantage of being run by angels, which means sometimes they have more important things to do than rip apart Sam and his younger brother. Things like ripping _each other_ apart.

Sam's lost count of how many times Lucifer and Michael have slaughtered each other within the confines of the cage, but while they're busy working their sibling rivalry out, Sam's escaping into his own mind. Sometimes it's as simple as remembering what it's like to be on earth; the people, the smells, the textures. Sometimes it's something more personal, like the last thing he and Dean laughed over, or how it felt to sit in the Impala in absolute silence, feeling totally safe and comfortable. He doesn't go there very often because those memories hurt the most. Or at least, they _did_ hurt the most until Dean himself showed up, real and tangible.

No matter how many times he tells Dean to just let him go, he can't help but want to cling tighter. Coming back to the cage is getting harder and harder.

* * *

Lucifer's whipping him again but compared to all the other things the angel does to him, this isn't so bad. This is really funny, in a way, because the moment you think that lashings aren't so bad should be the same moment where you realize that things are past the point of "bad."

But he's strung up by his wrists and the chains that are holding him are so cold they burn, and the whip on his freezing skin feels more like a knife than anything. Lucifer speaks sometimes but Sam usually doesn't hear him underneath his own screams and the sound of the cat. Sam's ok with this because he never wants to hear anything that Lucifer has to say anyways. Strangely, all of this isn't what's bothering him this time. In the back of his mind he feels a presence, a warmth that'd he'd recognize any where, in any dimension. Dean's there and he's feeling this just as much as Sam is, and that bothers him more than the whip does.

He hears faint screaming and he knows it isn't him, which means he's hearing Dean. Not for the first time, he wishes his brother would just let him go.

Then selfishly, he thanks god that he's not going through this alone.

* * *

There's a moment sometime after when Sam feels like he's really cracked. He's been in the cage too long and unlike Dean and the souls of hell, he doesn't get the option of turning the tables. It's just a constant loop of pain and torture and Lucifer's damn _voice_, and Christ for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he's losing it. He needs to get out. So he does something that he hasn't done since the very beginning: let his guard down. He's on the rack and Lucifer's doing something to him -he doesn't even know any more because it hurts so damn much – and he's crying, and begging, and pleading for his big brother because Dean's the only one who could ever make this better. Fix it.

Lucifer laughs and mocks him, asks him if he's had enough yet, and says, "Sammy, we have all of eternity down here."

The tears are running down Sam's face in rivers and all he can think is Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean.

* * *

They're sitting on the roof of the Impala, something they've done hundreds of times before, and Dean looks wrecked. They probably make an unseemly sight with their pain filled eyes and shaky hands, but no one's gonna see them anyways. Doesn't matter.

"This is nice. Just…not being. You know?"

Dean probably doesn't understand, or maybe he does. He guesses you could akin this to being drunk, because when your mind isn't all there, then nothing can hurt. S'probably why Dean used to drink so much.

Pressed shoulder to shoulder and Sam can feel how tired Dean is, emotionally and physically. Dean would never say it but this is hard for him. Hell is Dean's one weakness, aside from Sam himself, but now that the two are intertwined Dean has no choice but to face them both down. It's killing him.

Sam swallows and stares up at the stars, hoping that something up there will loan him the courage to do what he knows he has to do. Dean presses his shoulder closer to Sam's, and he realizes that he has all the courage he needs sitting right next to him.

He presses back.

"You're not going to forget about this, right?"

It's going to be hard to forget all the bad but Sam hopes that when the pain dulls and it's finally bearable, Dean'll remember things like this. The moments when it was just them and nothing else really mattered. They're some of Sam's best memories and he's willing to bet they're some of Dean's too.

"No. Why would I?"

He shrugs but doesn't dare say anything, doesn't even know if he could if he tried. Dean wouldn't like the answer anyway. So he sits and soaks in the warmth and comfort of his brother one last time, before he forces himself to go back, knowing that it'll be the last time he sees Dean again.

* * *

It's sometime later – moths, years, who knows – and he still feels Dean in the back of his head every once in a while. Sometimes it's when Lucifer's taking chunks outta his flesh, other times it's when Sam's sitting idly, waiting for Lucifer and Michael to finish gutting each other. Sam knows Dean's there but he doesn't let himself drift out of the stark reality of the cage. He's not going to draw on his brother's security to make this easier on himself. Doing so will only encourage Dean to keep killing himself on this impossible mission, because they both know Sam can't be saved this time. So if Sam has to let go of Dean in order for Dean to do the same, so be it.

Sam's made bigger sacrifices. He just can't think of one right now.


	6. Embers

A/N: Fair warning, Castiel is not my specialty. I don't know why but I never really got a good grip on his character, even though I really like him. So if he seems OOC, I apologize in advance.

Where we left off: Bobby's just hunted down Dean who's accidentally drugged himself into the dream root equivalent of a K-Hole. Sam's decided to try and save his brother by isolating himself.

* * *

"_I'm begging you,  
Stop praying for me."_  
-Alkaline Trio, "Prevent this Tragedy"

**Chapter 6**

"You aren't serious."

Dean lets out a small, unamused huff, "Serious as a heart attack."

"I have heard some stupid ideas come out've your mouth before but this is somethin' else entirely."

"Bobby, something's wrong. I know it. I need to get Sam outta there and if this is the only way, then it's the only way."

"Of course something's wrong, your brother is locked in the deepest part of hell with two archangels."

Dean flinches, "Not like that. The last few times I've dream walked…" Dean pauses at Bobby's disapproving glare, "Sam hasn't been there. I know he won't always be but it felt empty, or just…I don't know. Something's wrong."

Bobby stares for a moment and then sighs, "Dean, maybe…maybe it's just time to let this go." _Let Sam go_ is what he really means and they both know it.

Dean would if he could, but he can't. It'd be different if Sam died on a hunt or if he was in heaven. If he knew Sam was at peace then maybe Dean would be able to hold out long enough to find his own peace. But they aren't that lucky. Sam sacrificed himself, saving Dean and the rest of the world, and he's paying for it in ways that no one can imagine. Sam doesn't deserve eternal torment like that and Dean'll be damned if he just leaves him there without _trying_.

"No, Bobby. It's Sam," Dean simply says as if it explains everything. In a lot of ways, it does.

"I get that, son. I do. I miss the kid too. But this is insane and you know it. And no offense, but you're still not steady on your feet. You sure you're even up for this?"

Dean feels the remaining throb in the back of his head and winces. Three weeks ago Bobby drove his sorry, sick ass to the salvage yard where he spent some of the most miserable nine days of his life, and that's coming from a life time of miserable days. It was a week before the excruciating headaches went away and he could eat again, and he's still having the occasional dream that may or not may be a dream. Dean's not really sure any more.

But none of that is going to stop him, not until he's exhausted every last resource to get his little brother out of hell. Sam would do it for him; that's enough for Dean.

"I'm fine. I'm doing it."

Bobby sighs and sits down behind his desk, readjusting his trucker cap, "What about Cas? I thought you said he wasn't answering?"

Dean smirks, "He's not gonna have an option this time."

Bobby deadpans, "You're going to summon him. You really think that's a good way to get him to go along with this?"

"What else am I supposed to do, Bobby? The son of a bitch isn't answering and I can't do this without him."

"Can this even be _done_? This is a new brand of crazy, Dean. Even for us."

Dean shrugs, "I don't know, m'gonna try anyways."

"Die trying is more like it."

"Maybe," Dean says with unabashed determination and acceptance on his face. Much like when he went out to meet Lucifer at Stull, he's ready to die trying to reach his brother. "So are you gonna help me or not?"

Bobby glares, "What do you think?"

It's still early; the earth's just now starting to turn a pale blue as the sun erases the darkness. Dean's drinking whiskey anyways. He thinks he deserves it, all things considering, and it's five o'clock somewhere. The dew from the night is soaking into his jeans as he sits on the hood of the Impala but he doesn't even notice. Dean has more important things on his mind right now.

He sighs, takes another sip from his glass, and then bows his head.

"Dear Castiel, I'm about to embark on a suicide mission to hell and could really use your help. If you're not too busy playing harps and shinning halos, I'd really appreciate a moment. Please."

Dean looks up and glances around, looking for Castiel's familiar silhouette. All he sees are burnt out cars and the rising sun. Irritation flares in Dean's chest at the silence.

"Ok, how about come down here before I summon your ass and introduce your wings to some holy oil, you elusive sonuva…"

"Hello, Dean."

Dean jumps as Castiel's deep voice sounds from behind him. The whiskey in his glass sloshes dangerously and Dean fights to steady it.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters as he slides off the Impala, keeping a firm hold on the liquor glass.

Castiel frowns as he sweeps his gaze over the hunter, "You look terrible."

Castiel looks the same as he did five months ago: tan trench coat, badly knotted tie, wearing an expression on his face that is both puzzled and concerned. Despite Dean's annoyance at being ignored by the celestial being since Sam stopped the apocalypse, he can't deny that he's happy to see the wayward angel.

"Yeah, thanks. Guess you haven't improved your social skills while upstairs, huh?" Dean smirks as he takes another swig of Jack, "Where've you been, Cas?"

The puzzled look on Castiel's face deepens, "I thought you just established that I've been in heaven."

Dean rolls his eyes, "I mean, why haven't you answered? Sam jumped into the pit three months ago and you've been AWOL. What, you don't get cell reception up there?"

Castiel sighs as understanding settles in, "Things have been…chaotic since Sam off-set the balance and stopped Lucifer. Heaven is in shambles. As soon as I returned Raphael made his plans to take over. I can't allow it to happen, it would undo everything we stopped."

"You mean he'd try to kick start the apocalypse again." Dean's gaze is hard, filled with fury at the idea of another archangel trying to burn earth to the ground, and rendering Sam's sacrifice useless.

"Yes," Castiel replies.

"Son of a bitch," Dean's hand goes over his mouth as he tries to process the information, "So it's a civil war up there."

"Essentially."

"Wow…that," Dean takes another drink of whiskey, "That's just great. I know I've told you before but Cas, your frat bros are serious dicks."

Castiel doesn't respond but his silence is enough of an answer.

"You said you needed help with…a suicide mission."

"Uh, yeah," Dean says as he rubs the back of his neck, "I need you to help me get Sam outta the cage."

"Dean, you know that it can't be done. You knew it when Sam jumped. I do not have the power and anyone short of God will not either."

"Do you want to hear the plan or not?"

Castiel stares and Dean takes that as approval to continue, "I'm gonna open the door to the Devil's Gate and I'm gonna go in after him myself. I need you to repair the train tracks so that anything that crawls out gets trapped. I don't need another demon war on my hands."

In any other situation, the expression on Castiel's face would be hysterical: something between horror, shock, and anger.

Dean snorts, "Hey, I gave you fair warning."

"It's impossible. It took an entire team of angels to raise you from hell. How are you going to get to the deepest pit and passed the guards of the cage? You'd be killed before you even got half way."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cas."

Castiel shakes his head, a hint of desperation creeping into his eyes, "Dean, please. Sam would not want you to do this."

"Sam saved us and everyone else in this crap world, and we owe him big time. He's being ripped to shreds by _your_ big brothers so don't try and tell me what Sam would and would not want. I'm getting him out. With or without your help, but I'm getting him out."

Castiel has seen this look on Dean's face before. It's the expression that was on his face when Dean pleaded with the angel to help him stop Zachariah's plan, and bring Sam home. It's the same expression He saw just months ago when the world was about to be lost to Lucifer, but Dean wasn't ready to give up. It's the look that Castiel's come to recognize as Dean's last stand look, one that's always reserved for saving Sam or die trying. It's a look that Castiel hates.

"Even if by some miracle you got to the cage, you'd have to get in and steal Sam right out from Michael and Lucifer's nose, and you'd have to get back out. You'd have to…"

Castiel trails off as his gaze shifts in thought.

"What? What is it?" Hope flutters in Dean's chest at the thoughtful expression on Castiel's face. If there's even a hint that Castiel thinks this could work, then Dean's running with it and not letting go.

"You'd have to be as powerful as an angel," Castiel finishes.

"Oh, yeah that's great, Cas. I'd go strap on my angel wings but I'm having them detailed."

"Your sarcasm is not going to help."

"Well, Jesus, Cas don't you think this is something I already know?"

Castiel sighs. "Since the civil war broke out in heaven certain things have been made…more available. The weapons of heaven are more or less at my disposal."

"Ok, well what does that mean?"

"It means I could give you Michael's sword, the _real_ Michael's sword. With it you would be able to kill anything in your path."

Dean's jaw drops, "Michael's sword? Isn't that gonna piss him off?"

"You're walking into hell and you're worried about Michael being angry over you wielding his sword?"

"Are you kiddin' me? He's gonna take one look at it and smite my ass!"

"Not if you use it as leverage," Castiel says with a nearly undetectable smirk.

Dean blinks, quickly piecing together Castiel's implication, "You mean use it as a bargaining chip. The sword for Sam. Wouldn't he be able to fight his way out of the cage if he had it?"

Castiel slowly shakes his head, "He'd have complete control over Lucifer but the cage was made to hold archangels; one can't get out unless the cage is opened from the outside."

"Well that's all great but how am I supposed to get outta hell without my all-killing sword?"

"I don't know."

Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face, desperately trying to think of how he and Sam would get out of hell – alive – after leaving the cage. He could go in with their usual arsenal but they'd more than likely run out of ammo way before they got back to the Devil's Gate, leaving them defenseless. To make matters worse, they'd be fighting to get out at the same time all the demons would be trying to get out, which Dean imagines is going to be like a fight to the death in the ultimate championships. The odds aren't good but, Dean thinks with a smirk, when are they ever?

"We'll figure it out. When can we make this happen?" Dean asks, feeling renewed determination bubbling under the small bolt of fear in his gut.

Castiel looks away as if thinking, or maybe mentally reprimanding Dean for jumping head first into this crazy plan, "Tomorrow."

Dean nods, feeling steadier now that he has a game plan. He's always felt more at ease when he had something to concentrate on.

"I'll be ready," he says, "Hey, Cas? I couldn't do this without you, so you know…thanks."

Castiel's lips are pressed in a firm line of frustration but he nods once before disappearing with the barely audible swish of large wings.

* * *

A/N: This chapter took so long because when I first wrote it (months ago) I hated it. I was hesitant about Dean's plan and to be honest, the idea of writing a massive hell-rescue scene was incredibly daunting. But in the end I really liked the dialogue and now the idea is kind of exciting. I hope you all like it.


	7. Sulfur

A/N This chapter has sat half-finished for a long time. I decided to finish it up, and hopefully it won't take me too long to continue it. I just re-read the whole story and I forgot how much I liked it. So sorry for the long and unacceptable wait.

**Chapter 7**

This is a call to arms,  
gather soldiers,  
It's time to go to war.  
_- Thirty Seconds to Mars_

* * *

The night passes quickly. Dean spends the hours drowning in heavy anticipation and dread, much like he did the night before Sam went to face Lucifer. Instead of facing his own thoughts in the dark, Dean decides to sit out on Bobby's porch and watch the sun come up.

He knows he should've been sleeping – marching on hell sleepless has to be at the top of the list of "reckless and stupid" – but he was too restless, too damned _scared_ to sleep. He could put on a brave face and flesh out this suicide mission with a sarcastic smirk, but truth is he's bone deep terrified of going back to hell. He's not entirely sure but he thinks if you happen to die in hell, chances are that's where you're going to stay. He doesn't want to stay. That fear on top of the fear of being there again for _any_ reason has Dean wired like an electric chair. Despite all of this, he's still going to go through with it. Maybe that scares him a little too, the idea that he's still willing to do anything, including facing hell with nothing but a damn sword, if it means saving his little brother. Some things never change.

The porch door smacks shut and Bobby hands Dean a cup of coffee as he stands next to him.

"You sleep at all?"

Dean smiles mirthlessly, "Did you?"

Bobby doesn't respond and Dean can't help but think they make quite the pair.

"You sure about this?" Bobby asks.

The pinkish orange sun reflects off the tops of the broken down cars, glaring brilliantly as it catches dew drops and mirrors. The air's bitter with the beginnings of November and sky's cloudless. Dean can't help but think that it's a beautiful day to die.

"Nope."

Castiel hands Dean the sword. When the weight of the blade is in his hands, Dean stares in awe. The handle is white marble inlaid with pearls and a single diamond that glitters at the top. The actual blade is thirty-two inches of blessed silver, sharp enough to cut through bone like butter. Even if Dean didn't know this was Michael's sword, he still would've believed it if he was told it was forged in heaven.

"You done gapping?" Bobby says with barely veiled amusement.

Dean's mouth shuts with an audible click and he clears his throat, "Thanks, Cas."

"It should kill anything you come across. I'd advise you not to drop it," Castiel replies.

"Thanks for the tip."

"You're welcome."

Dean deadpans, "Sarcasm is still lost on you, huh?"

Castiel shifts his eyes in confusion but Dean's attention is already elsewhere.

"So, we ready to do this?"

"Are _you_ ready?" Bobby replies.

Dean grasps the handle of the sword, taking comfort from its weight and gathers every inch of Winchester courage that he has.

"All hands on deck. Let's go."

Cas teleports them right outside the boundaries of the iron Devil's Trap.

"Once Cas fixes the lines make sure you stay out of the trap. Can't have you gettin' stuck in there with all those demonic bastards," Dean says as he eyes the cemetery, trying to ignore the shiver running down his spine as he recalls the last time he was here.

"Worry about your own ass, you idjit. Go get your brother."

Dean half smiles, hearing what Bobby really means underneath all the sarcastic gruffness: _I got your back and you both better come back alive, care about you too damned much._

"Go for it, Magneto," Dean says and nods at Castiel.

Cas frowns in obvious confusion but holds out his hand towards the broken railways. The iron beams bend and creak until they're whole again, seamless and solid. Colt's demon trap is live again.

With one last nod to Bobby, Dean and Castiel cross the track and make their way to the Devil's Gate.

"I don't like this plan," Castiel states as they weave through the tombstones.

"I'm not too crazy about it either," Dean replies honestly. In one hand is the Colt, the key to the Devil's gate. In the other hand, Dean's clenching Michael's sword tight enough to imprint the gems in his palm.

"I do not expect you or Sam to survive."

"You give the best pep talks, Cas."

"Dean…"

They stop in front of the Devil's Gate.

"Look, maybe we make it out. Maybe we don't," Dean shrugs, "Maybe I won't even get close to Lucifer's cage. But what else am I gonna do? Go back to Lisa's? Hunt until some fugly gets me? At least this way I'll know I did something. I can't just keep going like nothing's wrong, like Sam's not being tortured every minute of every day. When I'm dead and gone, Sam will _still_ be being tortured. I can't do that, Cas. I just can't."

Castiel stares with watery blue eyes that seem to be piercing right through to Dean's soul. For a moment it looks like he really understands, like he can feel Dean's pain and desperation as if it were his own.

"If this doesn't go down the way we want it to, check in on Bobby every once in awhile, ok? He's gonna need someone to grump at," Dean says.

"I hope it doesn't come to that."

"Yeah," Dean says and huffs out a small laugh, "You n' me both."

With one last look, Cas disappears.

The Colt slides into the Devil's Trap door the same way it did all those years ago. Immediately the gold Devil's Trap turns and spins like a key in a lock. Dean yanks out the Colt and takes cover behind a headstone, preparing for the doors to burst open.

Like re-living a dream, the heavy iron doors explode with demon smoke, which angrily starts to bounce around the confines of the railroad Devil's Trap. With his hand glued to the sword, Dean charges the door and takes the plunge.


End file.
